Page 79 of We Used To Be Magic

‘What?’

‘If you’re in Midtown, you’re probably near MoMA. The gallery. You said you hadn’t done much touristy stuff.’

‘No, yeah. Uh – is it good?’

‘It’s great. My mum used to go there all the time.’

‘Really?’ I ask, more surprised by him mentioning his mum than the admission itself.

‘Uh-huh. Her favourite painting’s there. Uh …Christina’s World. Wyeth.’

‘I’ll have to find it,’ I say, wondering if he’d been sleeping before I called. There’s a strange, dragging cadence to his words – he sounds drunk, but it’s the middle of the afternoon. He can’t be. Or – could he? I suddenly remember his birthday, and the way he threw back that whisky like water …

‘She liked that sad, realism-ish kind of stuff,’ he continues. ‘Hopper, too. He’s in there as well, I think.’

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘I like what she liked,’ he says simply. Then, after a pause, ‘You’ll be seeing Marika tonight, won’t you?’

It’s such a sharp conversational pivot that I wonder if I might have zoned out briefly.

‘Um – I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘She said she was getting food with Mac, but I don’t know what she’s doing after. Maybe seeing Nicole.’

‘Right,’ he says after another pause. ‘Okay. Well – if you want to see me tomorrow, just let me know.’

‘Okay,’ I say, still wondering how Marika enters into this. ‘I will.’

‘And you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say uncertainly. ‘Are you?’

‘All good. I’ll see you soon, okay?’

And then he ends the call, and I’m left with the sickly, hollow feeling of having reached for something that wasn’t there.

I decide to do as Ezra suggested and go to MoMA. I even ask one of the security guards about the painting and she points me in the right direction. It’s a quiet afternoon, so when I do eventually find it, I’m there alone. Ezra was right – it is sad.It’salways seemed that way to me, and I’ve known it all my life. My grandma had the exact same painting in her house, a framed print above the fireplace. I consider messaging Ezra to tell him as much – it’s another one of those startling little links between us. But I can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t want to hear from me right now, so I don’t. I just stare.

The painting shows this thin, dark-haired girl in the middle of a dusty field, a house in the distance. She’s on the ground and the way that her hands are placed, the frame of her body – it’s as though she’s being pulled towards it, taut with longing. When I was a kid, I imagined that her family was in the house – that she was trying to get home. But standing here now, I wonder if maybe she’s not alone in that field. Maybe she’s trying to get away from something. From someone.

I wonder what Ezra’s mum saw in it. I try to imagine her stood where I am now but can’t. There are no pictures of her in his apartment. There’re no pictures at all.

EZRA

‘OH,’EDIE SAYS,HER GAZECATCHING ONTHE POTPLANT NESTLEDin my elbow. ‘Is that for me?’

‘It’s a succulent,’ I say, ‘The guy at the store said it was low maintenance.’

‘I’ll try not to take that personally. Come in.’

I follow her into her apartment. She shuts the door behind me, and I kick off my shoes, noticing her own slipper-clad feet. She’s wearing a chunky pink cardigan over what I assume are her work clothes, a snug black polo-neck and tweedy skirt.

‘I’m cooking,’ she announces, shuffling over to the stove. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘No,’ I say, glancing around with no small amount of interest. Edie’s place is a studio, smaller than mine but full to the brim withthings.There’s colour and texture everywhere – blankets on the sofa, prints on the walls, cushions, ornaments, candles. Her dorm room was similarly curated. I wander over to a bookshelf and pick up a dog-eared copy ofThe Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. I think it might have been mine once.

‘You can put the plant wherever,’ she says, stirring the contents of a pan. ‘Thanks, by the way. It’s cute.’

‘Figured I owed you a housewarming gift,’ I tell her, setting it down alongside the book. ‘I might have done better with more notice.’

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